


Scratches

by Slyboots



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Gay Relationship, Companionable Snark, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, M/M, Married Couple, Medical Procedures, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Ratings: PG, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 15:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21580180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slyboots/pseuds/Slyboots
Summary: "We don’t all show our scars on the outside, Breakdown."Knock Out despises cosmetic defects. Breakdown is a maestro with a rotary buffer.Set immediately after S1E11: Speed Metal.
Relationships: Breakdown/Knock Out
Comments: 2
Kudos: 88





	Scratches

**Author's Note:**

> Been a while since I've written any fanfiction, but this pair grabbed me.

“I’m not gonna say it.”

“You did warn me. Well, don’t I feel  _ silly _ .”

Breakdown grunted noncommittally, venting heat, his engine still roaring in his breast. “Think you can walk unaided? We’re gonna pass the patrol.”

“Just a mesh wound. Barely a scratch.” Though Knock Out staggered, punch-drunk still. Energon dripped from beneath his cracked faceplate, spattering crazed headlights. He cradled his arm, clutching the raw exposed wires and pistons, trilling. “This is a  _ war crime _ .”

Breakdown slowed his pace, offered a hand (servos shaking still with rage). Knock Out didn’t take it. 

“Where do I report this? Hello, Decepticon Justice Division? Autobot Tribunal?”

Uneasily Breakdown chuckled.

“The Hague?” Knock Out’s optics widened. Energon trickled from one flickering eyelid, smearing the glass.

“I don’t get it.” He averted his own optics. Set his jaw. “Left up ahead. Stay to my side unless you want to be seen.”

They passed the Vehicon patrol in silence, Breakdown a step ahead, breastplate thrust forward. Casting a massive shadow in the flickering light.

Knock Out turned his face away.

The Vehicons knew enough, at least, to look away in turn. 

Breakdown nodded to them. He’d seek them out later, commend them for their discretion. Remind them of the consequences of gossip.

No one knew better than Breakdown (big oafish Breakdown) the horrors of being watched.

On display.

Stared at.

“You’ve looked worse.” Breakdown’s hand dwarfed the diagnostic scanner. The medbay swallowed his voice. “No neural net damage.”

Knock Out looked like a broken toy, strapped to the operating table, his plating laced with gouges. “Oh, joy.”

“Lemme see your arm.” 

It was always polite to ask. Knock Out twitched in his cuffs, exposing the gouge.

“Take a long look. See what that so-called Prime  _ did _ to me?”

Breakdown tasted a surge of transmission fluid. Knock Out’s hydraulics pulsated, juddering like fat worms, just below raggedly sheared armor.

“Brutal,” observed Breakdown, tonelessly as he could manage, reaching for a fuel line patch.

“That’s the word. And  _ Starscream _ .”

“Yeah.”

Breakdown nudged the plating aside, patched the leaking hydraulic, sinking into muscle memory. Transmission lines were simple; he’d done a thousand thousand, in the ghostly light of medbays and the stinking bedlam of field hospitals, with artillery fire rattling his frame, on the dying and those who wished they were--

Transmission lines were easy. A mechanical problem.

He barely had to think at all.

“Who does he think he  _ is _ ?” Knock Out vented with pain; Breakdown jolted back to the present. It was dazzling Knock Out spread out before him, plating pinned back like a surgical specimen. Sickeningly vulnerable. “The little tin-pot sadist--”

Breakdown reached for a spool of copper wire. “He’s your superior officer, Knock Out.”

Knock Out vented again, exhaust condensing on Breakdown’s fingers.

“You’re no help at all.”

It was meant to wound. Breakdown swallowed irritation. “This is gonna tickle.”

And then, pulling the wiring tight: “I wasn’t going to get in the way. Woulda gotten us both killed.”

“Almost certainly.”

Knock Out’s optics drifted, fixing behind Breakdown’s shoulder. Breakdown didn’t need to look: the brutal ugly  _ thing _ there was stamped in his memory.]

He’d seen carcasses enough, in his day, even a few on life support.

But Megatron’s unblinking serenity felt almost reproachful.

“You think old Megatron--”

“Probably.” Breakdown shrugged, his trick shoulder twinging. His bearings had never quite sat right, not after Motormaster--

The memories yawned in front of him, exposed and visceral as Knock Out’s wiring. Breakdown forced them aside.

He’d seen enough violence. The  _ violence _ was easy, the thunder of pistons, the shriek of buckling metal, the screams, the adrenaline.

The aftermath--

A mechanical problem, that was all. Think with fingers, not neural net.

“ _ You _ were command for a spell. When Motormouth got his diodes jostled.”

At that Breakdown winced, just a little. His file slipped.

Knock Out yelped, and Breakdown’s engine turned over. “Hey. Watch it, big boy.”

“Sorry.” He meant it. “Yeah, I was acting command. Three mechs, scared oilless, all of ‘em hating each other and me.”

And then, in answer to Knock Out’s lingering gaze, “Sure. I smacked Wildrider around a couple times. Only way he’d shut up and listen. For the Decepticon cause, right?”

Knock Out hummed, clearly unconvinced. His chestplate vibrated under Breakdown’s hand, the cracks rattling.

“Scrap. That’s a bad sound.” Breakdown abandoned the gouge he’d been smoothing. Stepped back to see the full picture.

A mistake. He’d known it would be a mistake.

It hit him, in colors almost too vivid to be real: Knock Out, his seams blue with Energon, his finish white and powdery, scraped down to raw metal. He’d been close to flayed in places.

“Hard to look at, isn’t it?” Knock Out’s voice was tart, strained with pain.

“Yeah.” Knock Out knew him too well to believe a lie. “I shoulda taken it for you. I can take it. Who cares about my finish, huh?”

Knock Out pulled a pained leer. “ _ Commanding officer _ , my fender. You were about ready to compact Starscream back there.”

“Don’t like seeing you hurt.” Breakdown looked away, down at his surgical tools. A few joors of mechanical work-- _ maintenance _ work, really. Look at the individual gouges, see the work to be done, not Knock Out’s face, not the humiliation and rage pulsating in his optics as surely as in Breakdown’s fevered engine--

“That makes two of us,” said Knock Out.

The soldering iron hissed.

A mechanical problem--

\--but Knock Out’s frame was delicate, his wiring intricate, and Breakdown’s hand almost- _ almost _ shook as Knock Out talked him through it.

Both of them fully--painfully--conscious.

Only way to do it, with only one doctor aboard.

Knock Out didn’t yell as the solder hit--

\--but it was a near thing.

Afterward, Breakdown fed coolant into Knock Out’s lines, held his shaking hand. The surging heat in his own breast he swallowed down. There would be time enough to roar, to curse, to punch walls until the paint flaked from his servos.

“You know, Breakdown, if it weren’t for your unquestioned surgical skill--”

Breakdown shrugged. “Had a smart teacher.”

Knock Out was barely mollified. “You’ll remember I’m extremely  _ exposed _ here. Hurry up and start painting, will you?”

He forgave Knock Out that. He thought sometimes he could forgive Knock Out just about anything.

“You want the enamel primer?”

“Mm. The epoxy.” Knock Out’s optics cycled off, his eyelids flickering. “You could use some of this yourself. You look, don’t mind my saying it, like a six-way traffic pile-up in Kaon.” Knock Out’s smile was still tinged with irritation. “You’re such a breathtaking piece of machinery--”

“Never thought much about it.”

And, unspoken:  _ Wasn’t the finish I fell in love with, Knock Out _ .

“Hold still.”

But Knock Out never knew when to stop. It was as maddening as it was endearing. “You’ve got dents from before the  _ war _ . You’re walking around with Motormaster’s fists all over you.”

“Mostly Bulkhead’s.” Though Knock Out’s tone gouged him somewhere under the reinforced steel. “I’m military. I get punched. Shot at. Blown up. Got nothing to hide.”

Though as he sprayed primer over the fresh welds he remembered Motormaster, remembered the dull ache in his own wires, remembered Knock Out’s hiss as he traced the dents.

“I hate seeing you hurt. Could take or leave the paint job. Truth is, I barely even see it.”

He rose, reaching for the sander, to avoid seeing Knock Out’s face.

Some solar cycles he envied the blacksmiths of old Cybertron.

Envied the endless labor, the catharsis of bringing forth something beautiful.

“ _ There’s _ my partner. Brawn  _ and _ talent.” 

Breakdown grunted, bringing down the hammer. The  _ sentio metallico _ twitched and spasmed, casting off gouts of crimson heat.

Knock Out was skittish about the word  _ conjunx _ , aboard the Nemesis. They were always watched, he’d explained--

\--and Breakdown wondered if he felt Soundwave’s constant stare too, the itch under his armor. Or perhaps it was Starscream’s oily gaze, or Megatron’s dead-eyed accusing glower, or the Vehicons’ hot hunger for authority--

“I could watch you forever, Breakdown.”

Breakdown gritted his dentae, venting hard, feeling Knock Out’s gaze most of all. Feeling  _ known _ .

The warmth of it, the too-tender intimacy, the slyness.

“You miss deep space?” He cut Knock Out off. Brought the hammer down in a flurry of raps. “Nobody out there but you and me. No Starscream. No  _ Nemesis _ .”

“It had its perks.” Knock Out watched the door take shape. “I like an audience.”

“Better you than me.” The metal flowed, clicking as it reshaped itself, picking up his intent. “Always looking perfect. Always on stage. Never slagging up--never having even a scratch--”

Knock Out shrugged in his surgical cuffs. Winced at the pressure on his freshly welded arm.

“Good as new.”

The freshly-painted door settled neatly into Knock Out’s seams. Clicked into place.

Knock Out’s hand worked over Breakdown’s breastplate, still hot from the forge.

“Nobody’s gonna know the difference. Starscream can--” He felt Soundwave’s gaze, from all angles at once. Hastily broke off.

“We don’t all show our scars on the outside, Breakdown. One would almost think you’re proud of how much scrap you’ve taken.”

Knock Out’s talon lingered on a dent, the paint powdery where Motormaster’s fist had--

\--no, he steered away from that memory, forced the hot pinprick of his consciousness back to Knock Out’s hand, to his wide red optics.

“Let me repaint you. Haven’t you earned it?”

“Maybe I have. Maybe I am proud.” Breakdown huffed. “Don’t make me think. Not my job.”

Truth be told, it was easier to look at Knock Out now. The shriek of Starscream’s talons over flawless red paint seemed a distant memory, though by Breakdown’s HUD it had been just joors before.

Good as new.

Breakdown reached for the anger at Starscream. Found only resignation.

Hard to avenge a wound that no longer existed.

“You’re going to report in at 0400, huh?”

“As if it never happened. All winning smiles and devastating charm. If I do say so myself.”

He held Knock Out close, the heat of their engines almost stifling in the tight berth.

Stay with me, he wanted to growl, holding Knock Out until his perfect wax bore the marks of Breakdown’s big servos, until he was  _ marked _ , until his history showed on his body--

Instead he buried his face in Knock Out’s pauldron, smelling fresh paint. “Good. He’s a--”

“--superior officer. I’m unfortunately aware. Mm. Keep doing that.”

“I miss deep space,” muttered Breakdown, quiet as he could, his synthesizer buzzing against Knock Out’s audial. “Kinda wish we’d never--”

He trailed off, but Knock Out was already on the scent.

“Me too, Breakdown. Still. A few more orns--put in a visible effort--and jet off when  _ Commander _ Starscream doesn’t need our services anymore, eh? Back to space. Like none of it ever happened.”

They were silent for a cycle. This close to Knock Out, soaking in his warmth and vibrating with the hum of his motor, he swore he could feel Knock Out thinking--

“We’ve got a job to do,” breathed Breakdown.

“Mm. Hold me tighter.”

He woke alone at 0500, with a red smear on his paint. For several cycles he lay motionless, imagining the steady weight of Knock Out in his arms--

But you couldn’t get lost in the past.

He lumbered to his feet, dreams of freshly gutted wiring and Motormaster’s strangled bellows still swimming in his optics. Under the washracks he cleaned away Knock Out’s paint. Watched it dissipate, swirling down the drain.

**Author's Note:**

> Breakdown's low-grade paranoia and self-consciousness owe a lot to G1 and War for Cybertron, but also something to his portrayal in IDW (slow, lower-class, twice the size of everyone else).


End file.
